After departing Chiang Mai, Ãcariya Mun stayed two
rains retreats at Wat Non Niwet monastery in Udon
Thani. Following the second retreat, a group of lay
devotees from Sakon Nakhon, headed by a longtime
disciple, Khun Mae Num Chuwanon, came and invited
him to return with them for the spiritual benefit of
people there. When he readily agreed, all concerned
were delighted, and arrangements were made to escort
him there. Upon arriving in Sakon Nakhon in late
1941, Ãcariya Mun first resided at Wat Suddhawat
monastery. Soon monks and laity were arriving daily
to pay their respects and seek his advice.

While at Wat Suddhawat, somebody came with a camera
and asked permission to take his photograph to keep
as an object of worship. In all, Ãcariya Mun allowed
his picture to be taken three times: on this
occasion in Sakon Nakhon; previously, when he was
staying in Nakhon Ratchasima; and later, at Ban Fang
Daeng in That Phanom district of Nakhon Phanom
province on his return from Ãcariya Sao’s funeral.
The photographic prints that his devotees collect as
objects of worship today are reproductions of
pictures taken on these three occasions. But for
these, there would be no photographic images to
remind us what he looked like. It was not easy to
get permission to take Ãcariya Mun’s picture. Those
who tried were on pins and needles, fidgeting
nervously as they waited drenched in sweat, looking
for a good opportunity to broach the subject with
him. Well aware that he rarely gave permission for
such activities, they were afraid that if they did
not handle the situation properly, then he might
simply dismiss them with a curt retort.

Ãcariya Mun stayed at Wat Suddhawat monastery for
awhile before moving to a small forest monastery
near the village of Ban Na Mon which, being very
quiet and secluded both day and night, suited him
perfectly. The monks and novices living with him
were an impressive sight – they said very little,
but packed quite a punch. That is to say, instead of
chatting among themselves, they preferred to put
effort into their practice, each monk sitting in his
own hut or walking meditation out in the forest. At
four o’clock in the afternoon they all emerged from
their living quarters to sweep the grounds together.
With the whole area swept clean, they drew water
from the well and carried it around to fill up the
water barrels used for cleaning their feet and
washing their alms bowls. These chores completed,
everyone bathed together at the well in an admirably
quiet, composed manner. They performed each daily
chore with a remarkable self-control, always
applying mindfulness and wisdom to analyze the
nature of the tasks at hand – no one absentmindedly
engaged in idle conversation. As soon as the day’s
duties were finished they separated, each monk
returning to his hut to sit or walk in meditation as
he saw fit.

When the monks returned to their huts, the monastery
appeared deserted. A visitor happening to arrive
then would not have seen a single monk simply
standing around or sitting idly. Had the visitor
ventured into the surrounding forest, he would have
discovered some of the monks pacing back and forth
on their meditation tracks, and others sitting
peacefully in their small huts, all preferring to
practice quietly, in solitude. They came together
for almsround and the morning meal, or when there
was an evening meeting, and only occasionally for
other required duties. Even on almsround, each monk
walked to and from the village with cautious
restraint, mindfully intent on his meditation
practice. They were not negligent, walking along
casually gazing here and there, chatting with anyone
who chanced to pass by. His monks truly were an
inspirational sight to see as they walked for alms
with such dignified composure.

Back in the monastery, the monks sat together
investigating the food in their alms bowls as they
prepared to eat. They reflected on the dangers
inherent in attachment to food. Remaining mindful as
they ate, they gave no indication that they were
enjoying the food. With their attention focused on
the contents of their alms bowls, they refrained
from talking and did not allow their gaze to stray
from the task of eating. They chewed their food
carefully to avoid making loud, impolite noises that
could disturb the others. The meal over, they helped
each other put everything neatly away and swept the
place clean. Each monk washed his alms bowl, dried
it with a cloth, and carefully placed it in the sun
for a few minutes. Only then did he put his alms
bowl away in the appropriate place.

These duties completed, each monk returned to the
seclusion of his own living quarters, turning his
full attention to training his heart and mind in the
manner of practice best suited to him. Sometimes a
monk exerted himself to the limit; at other times,
less so. In either case, he concentrated solely on
his practice, unconcerned about how many hours
passed or how much energy he expended. Basically,
his objective was to make sure his mind remained
focused on the meditation subject he had chosen to
control it until that focus of attention became a
mental object he could rely on to direct his heart
toward peace and calm. Such calm, in turn, helped
him to concentrate his mental focus on the cause and
effect relationships inherent within whichever
phenomena his wisdom then chose to investigate,
allowing him to gradually attain increasingly more
subtle levels of Dhamma as he progressed toward the
ultimate goal. While applying himself assiduously,
he always tried to make sure that his mode of
practice was correct for the level of Dhamma he was
working on.

It is extremely important that a monk have
mindfulness at every stage of his practice. It is
also essential that a monk use wisdom when his
practice reaches those levels of Dhamma where wisdom
is indispensable. Mindfulness, however, is always
indispensable – at all times, in all activities.
Whenever mindfulness is missing, effort also is
missing. Lacking mindfulness, walking and sitting
meditation are just empty postures void of anything
that could be called “right effort”. For this very
reason, Ãcariya Mun stressed mindfulness more than
any other aspect of a monk’s practice. In fact,
mindfulness is the principal foundation supporting
every aspect on every level of meditation practice.
Practiced continuously, it eventually develops into
the kind of supreme-mindfulness that fosters the
highest levels of wisdom. Mindfulness must be used
intensively at the preliminary level of developing
meditative calm and concentration. In all succeeding
levels of practice, mindfulness and wisdom must be
developed in tandem, working as a team.

Ãcariya Mun taught his monks to be very resolute and
courageous in their practice. Anyone who was not
earnestly committed to the practice was unlikely to
remain with him for long. About once a week he
called a meeting and gave a talk; on other nights he
expected the monks to expedite their efforts on
their own. Those with doubts or questions about
their practice could consult him without having to
wait for the next meeting. An aura of Dhamma
pervaded the atmosphere around him, giving his
students the feeling that magga, phala, and Nibbãna
were truly within their reach. His reassuring
presence gave them the determination and courage
necessary to pursue their practice to the limit,
conducting themselves in a manner that suggested
they had the highest attainments in their sights.
When meditating, they made little distinction
between day and night; each monk strived in earnest
regardless of the hour. On moonless nights, candle
lanterns illuminated meditation tracks around the
whole area. On moonlit nights, monks walked
meditation by the light of the moon, each practicing
with a sense of urgency that allowed him very little
time for sleep.

Ã CARIYA M UN ’ S PROFICIENCY in chanting the
suttas was unrivaled. He chanted suttas alone for
many hours every night without fail. He would chant
long discourses, like the Dhamma-cakka-pavat-tana
Sutta and the Mahã Samãya Sutta, nearly every night.
Occasionally, he translated the meaning of the
suttas for our benefit, translations based on his
own personal experience. He spoke directly to their
essential meaning, often bypassing the strict rules
of Pãli grammar normally used to maintain uniformity
in translations. The undeniable clarity of his
translations allowed his audience to glimpse the
fundamental message of the ancient texts he quoted.
Amazingly, he translated Pãli better than the
accomplished scholars, though he had never studied
Pãli in any formal way. No sooner had he mentioned a
Pãli phrase than, without even a pause, he had
translated it as well in a quick, fluent style that
defied belief. For instance, when citing passages
from the Dhamma-cakka-pavattana Sutta or the Mahã
Samãya Sutta during the course of his talks, he gave
fast, simultaneous translations worthy of a tenth
grade Pãli scholar. I say the tenth grade because I
have heard ninth grade Pãli scholars translate and
they tend to be slow and plodding. They deliberate
quite a long time over each passage and even then
they are not very sure of their translations.

Not only was Ãcariya Mun quick, he also was boldly
confident of the truth of his words. Having clearly
experienced the truth of their essential meaning
himself, he was certain of his translations. Pãli
verses arose spontaneously in his heart, which he
then elaborated on in a way that differed somewhat
from classical interpretations. For example, vãtã (風)rukkhã(樹)
na(無)
pabbato(山),
which he translated as: “gale force winds can uproot
whole trees, yet they can’t move a mountain of
stone.” This is an example of one Dhamma verse that
arose spontaneously in his heart, along with the
translation, while he was giving a talk to the
monks.

What I just wrote about the ninth and tenth grades
of Pãli scholarship shouldn’t be taken too
seriously. It is merely a figure of speech used by
monks in the forest tradition – no offense is
intended. We forest monks tend to act a bit like
monkeys that have grown accustomed to living in the
wild: even if they are caught and raised as pets,
they still retain their old habits. They can never
really adapt to human behavior. Please excuse me for
presuming to compare Ãcariya Mun’s translations with
those of Pãli scholars. Some readers may feel that I
have overstepped the mark here.

I N DUE TIME Ã CARIYA M UN left Ban Na Mon
and moved to Ban Khok, just over a mile away, where
he spent the rainy season retreat. Since it was
difficult to find a better location, the monastery
was located only half a mile from the village.
Still, the place was very quiet. Not more than
eleven or twelve monks stayed with him at any one
time in either of those places due to the limited
number of available huts. It was while he resided at
Ban Khok that I arrived. He was kind enough to
accept me as a student, although I was about as
useful as an old log. I lived there like a ladle in
a pot of stew. I feel ashamed just thinking about it
now: this useless log of a monk staying with an
absolutely brilliant sage of such universal renown.

All the same, I do feel easier about writing his
story from this period onward. Up to this point in
the story I have felt somewhat hampered, and not a
little frustrated, by the fact that most of my
information comes secondhand from senior disciples
who lived with him in the early years. In
preparation for writing this biography, I spent many
years going around to meet those ãcariyas,
interviewing them and writing down their memories,
or taping my conversations with them. All this
material then need to be carefully arranged in
chronological order before it could be presented in
a meaningful, readable format – a very demanding
task. From now on I shall be writing about what I
myself witnessed in the final years of Ãcariya Mun’s
life. Although this part of the story may not
impress the reader as much as what has gone before,
as the author I feel relieved to be writing from
personal experience.

Ã CARIYA M UN SPENT the rains retreat at the Ban
Khok forest monastery with a small group of monks,
all of whom remained healthy and contented
throughout the three months. Ãcariya Mun called a
meeting about once a week, both during the retreat
period and after it was over. Although his
discourses usually lasted for two to four hours, his
audience was so completely absorbed in meditation
practice that thoughts of weariness and fatigue
never crossed their minds. For his part, Ãcariya Mun
was completely absorbed in delivering the Dhamma,
expounding the nature of cause and effect in a
reasonable way that struck a chord with his
listeners, all of whom were genuinely searching for
Truth. The Dhamma he presented was delivered
straight from a heart that had realized this Truth
with absolute clarity – leaving no room for doubt.
Only one doubt remained: Could the monks actually do
the practice the way he described it.

He delivered his discourses in a manner reminiscent
of times past when the Lord Buddha delivered a
discourse to a gathering of monks. We can be sure
that the Lord Buddha’s discourses were concerned
solely with the great treasures of Dhamma; that is,
he spoke only on subjects directly related to magga,
phala, and Nibbãna. Thus, monks listening to him
were able to attain magga, phala, and Nibbãna one
after another, in steady succession, right up until
the day of his final passing away. Because the
Buddha’s teaching emanated directly from an
absolutely pure heart, the Dhamma he delivered was
incomparably superb. This was magga and phala, pure
and simple, and his listeners were able to emulate
his teaching to perfection.

The Dhamma that Ãcariya Mun delivered was
spontaneous Dhamma of the present moment – refined
and purified in his heart. He did not theorize or
speculate when he spoke. His audience already had
their own doubts and uncertainties about the
practice, and further speculation would only have
served to increase those doubts. Instead, as they
listened, his Dhamma gradually dispelled their
doubts. Those who heard his wonderful expositions
were able to use them as a way to significantly
reduce their kilesas. Beyond that, they could be
used to conclusively eliminate all doubts.

Ã CARIYA M UN CHANTED suttas every night for
several hours. On a night when no meeting was held,
he left his meditation track at about eight o’clock
and entered his hut to quietly chant suttas at
length before resuming seated meditation until it
was time to retire. On meeting nights, his chanting
began later, after the meeting was over. This meant
that his normal schedule was delayed when there was
a meeting so that he retired later than usual, at
midnight or one A. M.

One evening, hearing him softly chanting in his hut,
I had the mischievous urge to sneak up and listen. I
wanted to find out what suttas he chanted at such
length every night. As soon as I crept up close
enough to hear him clearly, however, he stopped
chanting and remained silent. This did not look
good, so I quickly backed away and stood listening
from a distance. No sooner had I backed away than
the low cadence of his chanting started up again,
now too faint to be heard clearly. So again I
sneaked forward– and again he went silent. In the
end, I never did find out what suttas he was
chanting. I was afraid that if I stubbornly insisted
on standing there eavesdropping, a bolt of lightning
might strike and a sharp rebuke thunder out. Meeting
him the next morning I glanced away. I did not dare
to look him in the face. But he looked directly at
me with a sharp, menacing glare. I learned my lesson
the hard way: never again did I dare to sneak up and
try to listen in on his chanting. I was afraid I
would receive something severe for my trouble. From
what I had observed of him, if I persisted there was
a real chance I’d get just what I was asking for.

It was only later, after long association with him,
that I clearly understood just how well he perceived
everything going on around him. Thinking about it
now, how could he possibly have been unaware that I
was standing there like an idiot and listening so
intently. It’s obvious – he was fully aware. But
before making any comment, he wanted first to wait
and check out this stubborn, silly monk. Any further
such behavior was bound to invoke a severe response.
What amazed me was: each time I crept close to his
hut he stopped chanting straight away. He obviously
knew exactly what was going on.